10-15-2022, 11:22 PM
@Colby , but also open!
--
The red-and-white mare comes within sight of the shore with all the helplessness of a newborn foal, and probably as wet as one, too. But she finally feels something different, now--her front hooves start scraping at the earth.
So her thick legs churn frantically out of her waterlogged prison until the ground starts to feel more solid, and her hindquarters coil for one last leap onto land--unnecessary, maybe, and with such bad footing, she slips and rolls onto the last few muddy patches--but she tosses her soggy forelock out of her eyes and lies there to catch her breath, her white-patched torso heaving.
Presently, her stomach spurs her into looking for grass. There's not much of it where she is, and most of it is tough with the telltale salty taste--but she has never been fussy, and after chewing a few mouthfuls of it, she calms down enough to realize:
She should not be here.
California--or the part where she lived with her owners, at least--is not close enough to any place that can be swum to in a day or so, no matter how long she hasn't slept, and she hasn't heard of any islands--or any empty islands--that are large enough for a seabird to live, let alone a horse.
Perhaps she's actually been bounced back to her home, on another stretch of the coast? It's not like she'd know which direction she's been going after so long at sea, anyhow.
But there are no people here, either, she notices as she wanders.
Instead there is something else, as her panicked survival instincts start draining off. She's encountered different soils and grasses, sure, but she's never smelled anything like this place.
"Am I dead?" Her voice rasps at the air, low and hoarse from exertion.
No answer.
"It doesn't seem like a nice place to die," she huffs, shaking out her white-streaked mane. Not bad, especially if there's more grass farther inland--but she has certainly been in better ones.
She's not named Kalamansi for being sweet, after all.
--
The red-and-white mare comes within sight of the shore with all the helplessness of a newborn foal, and probably as wet as one, too. But she finally feels something different, now--her front hooves start scraping at the earth.
So her thick legs churn frantically out of her waterlogged prison until the ground starts to feel more solid, and her hindquarters coil for one last leap onto land--unnecessary, maybe, and with such bad footing, she slips and rolls onto the last few muddy patches--but she tosses her soggy forelock out of her eyes and lies there to catch her breath, her white-patched torso heaving.
Presently, her stomach spurs her into looking for grass. There's not much of it where she is, and most of it is tough with the telltale salty taste--but she has never been fussy, and after chewing a few mouthfuls of it, she calms down enough to realize:
She should not be here.
California--or the part where she lived with her owners, at least--is not close enough to any place that can be swum to in a day or so, no matter how long she hasn't slept, and she hasn't heard of any islands--or any empty islands--that are large enough for a seabird to live, let alone a horse.
Perhaps she's actually been bounced back to her home, on another stretch of the coast? It's not like she'd know which direction she's been going after so long at sea, anyhow.
But there are no people here, either, she notices as she wanders.
Instead there is something else, as her panicked survival instincts start draining off. She's encountered different soils and grasses, sure, but she's never smelled anything like this place.
"Am I dead?" Her voice rasps at the air, low and hoarse from exertion.
No answer.
"It doesn't seem like a nice place to die," she huffs, shaking out her white-streaked mane. Not bad, especially if there's more grass farther inland--but she has certainly been in better ones.
She's not named Kalamansi for being sweet, after all.